


Diplomat

by lady_of_clunn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, HP: EWE, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 22:50:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_of_clunn/pseuds/lady_of_clunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to Utopia´s Cocktails challenge on AFF. Hermione and Lucius escape a boring Ministry function and get carried away by the ancient magic of the holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diplomat

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter; I do not earn money by writing this story.
> 
> A big thank you to dynonuget for the excellent beta!

“A Diplomat, please,” a low and slightly husky voice said next to her.

She snorted, which was very unladylike, into her drink.

From the corner of her eye she caught some movement. He was looking at her. Was she already drunk enough to have insulted some high-ranking official who could probably get her sent to the Shaman-Liaison office in Siberia, the least desirable post in the department of International relations?

At second thought, liaising with some fur-clad wizards doing ancient, wild magic did sound better than her current job as a clerk in the Consular Section of the international part of the Ministry of Magic.

The barman started pouring Vermouth from two different bottles, silently counting the seconds to measure the required amounts.

“Shaken, not stirred.”

Now she was bursting with giggles. Biting her lip she tried to hide behind the oversized decoration perched at the side of her curvy cocktail glass. Crushed ice was shoveled into the shaker.

“Are you trying to keep your drink light, while the villains are knocking back water glasses full of vodka, Mr. Bond?”

“I fail to truly understand your meaning, but I would not be contrary to any adversary intoxicating himself with an unhealthy amount of vodka.”

Something about that voice sounded vaguely familiar… she chanced a glimpse to her right with narrowed eyes.

“Though, I must say that I am surprised not to be called the villain myself, considering our history, Miss Granger.”

It fit with her luck of late that Lucius Malfoy, no, Lord Lucius Malfoy, representative of the European Wizarding population to the Secretary General of the United Nations, was a mere few inches away from her ear. In fact, she could smell his cool fragrance of citrus fruit and bergamot. Any closer and the humidity of his breath would probably condense against her neck. Cooling charms, which he had obviously placed on his person to be able to stand the formal robes he was wearing despite the heat of summer, were radiating off him.

If she would have been any less intoxicated, she would have fallen off her stool in shock. Now, only her drink lost its balance, and the quarter baby pineapple propelled itself dangerously towards her chest. A few drops escaped, but just before she could be soaked in the garishly tinted liquid, a steady hand caught her glass.

“Miss Granger, are you attempting to turn even more … iridescent … than you already are? Some of the attendees would certainly suffer some failure or the other in the process.”

Hermione looked down at her orange and pink silk dress and shrugged.

“Well, at least the stains would have matched my dress. Of sorts.”

She refused to be intimidated by him, even though he was superior to her in rank.

The rattling sound of shaking could be heard from the other side of the bar as the bartender made Lucius´ drink. The pale-coloured concoction was strained into a cocktail glass and the barman used the zest-peeler to create some slim, curly stripes of orange peel to top the liquid near the rim of the glass.

Lucius Malfoy accepted the drink and turned to her again, silently sizing her up.

“You certainly look rather refreshing compared to the more conservative crowd,” he said without malice.

Sighing softly, she let her gaze wander one more time. It was a sea of black, forest green, dark purple, burgundy, and navy blue.

Again she felt the disapproving looks that had followed her since her arrival.

“I am afraid I fell prey to a game that my colleagues seem to be very partial to.”

He cocked his head, letting his eyes rest at her strapless neckline for a few moments. A single drop of her drink glistened in the light of the chandeliers. Idly, he wondered whether she would taste like passion fruit and mango, as the aroma of her cocktail suggested.

“What game is that, pray tell. Did you lose a bet?”

“Nothing so mundane. It´s called,`Trick the Mudblood´.”

Pale eyebrows rose.

“They actually said that?”

For a moment her face fell and she tried to hide her sadness by taking another hearty draught of the deceivingly sweet concoction in her glass.

“Of course not. The new policy is quite clear about usage of such terms.”

Another sip.

“That does not stop them from thinking, though. Or acting.”

Her tall cocktail glass was nearly empty by now and leaning dangerously in her hand.

“Or telling the newbie at the office, `It´s a celebration of light. Wear something cheerful, yet dressy.´” Hermione had taken a mocking pose and imitated a fake smile and falsely sweet voice.

She looked at him unhappily.

“I violated protocol, didn´t I? This dress is completely inappropriate. I am drawing too much attention to myself.”

He chuckled a bit. The little witch was proving to be amusing.

“Well, it´s not like you´ve greeted the First Secretary before the Ambassador. Don´t worry, you will not cause a diplomatic incident.”

His smile seemed genuine when he gestured towards the entry hall with his glass in his hand.

“And now you are not the only butterfly among the Ministry moths.”

Hermione turned to see the Ambassador of the Central African Wizarding Union and his wife entering the banquet hall. They looked glorious in their bright, traditionally patterned robes.

“Did you just call yourself a moth?”

“But by no means!”

He placed his drink on top of the bar and straightened his already perfectly straight robes.

“What say you?”

She looked at him appraisingly over the sugar encrusted rim of her glass.

“I think you are more of a male Archduke.”

He arched an eyebrow, puzzled.

“You know my title.”

She smiled and waved her wand, conjuring a beautiful black butterfly with a brilliant metallic color covering the margins of its wings, ever changing in the light from silver to blue to greenish, while it happily fluttered above them.

“See? It looks just like you. Male Archduke. It lives in the tropics.”

Draining the last drops of her drink, she watched the glass magically refill itself.

“How many times have you done this tonight?”

Hermione blinked at him. Conjuring a butterfly? She seemed to be tripping over her thoughts.

Very gently, he took the heavy glass from her hand.

“Too often, as I see.”

He offered her his arm, snake headed cane in hand.

“Would you care for some fresh air? Even the excessive use of cooling charms cannot substitute for the fresh sea breeze outside.”

For a moment she waited for the revulsion or dread to set in. Maybe she should try to find out the name of the cocktail she´d had. `Get me something that matches my dress and has the most ridiculous decoration you can come up with´ didn´t sound too specific. Whatever it was, it made her feel daring.

She smiled and placed her hand on his black-clad arm.

“I´d like that.”

 

***

 

The cool air helped to clear her mind from the slight alcohol-induced fog.

Walking along the sea-side promenade in Bournemouth, she found Lucius to be surprisingly pleasant company.

The function had started exactly at sunset, shortly before nine o´clock that evening and she had already been hiding behind her cocktail decoration for several hours before the tall blond man had happened upon her at the bar. The darkest hours of the night had passed and the sky was now growing to a brilliant shade of dark blue.

“I always thought that Lughnasadh would be a more … happy occasion. Isn´t it supposed to celebrate the light and warmth of summer? Or is it just the Foreign Office that´s so stuffy?”

Lucius laughed softly.

“Don´t let them hear that. Protocol is the pride and joy of diplomacy.”

She climbed up on the lowest crossbar of the balustrade that separated the promenade from the beach. Holding on to the handrail she turned her face into the salty wind and closed her eyes.

It struck him how very young and beautiful she looked.

“We are not going back, are we?” she asked looking out to the sea, not even realizing how her words could be interpreted.

“No, the function should be drawing to a close by now. I am afraid our early exit together might fuel some office gossip. It could be quite uncomfortable for you come Monday morning.”

She glanced at him quickly before looking back at the English Channel, searching the darkness for the Isle of Wight. Since she would not be going back to the banquet, she pulled out the hair pins holding up the mass of her hair and let it fall down her back, trying to get the wind to blow through the lightly damp strands.

He could not look away. Casually, he leaned against the rail, hoping it would make his staring a bit less obvious.

“Unfortunately, I doubt it could get any worse. During the last days they were downright nice to me, advising me about tonight. I was hoping that, at last, they had accepted me.” 

She looked down, adding, “I walked right into it.”

Without thinking, he caught one of her flying curls and tucked it behind her ear.

“The Foreign Office is the last hidden bastion of pureblood supremacy. A hundred years ago, no one but members of the oldest and most noble houses of aristocracy would be allowed in. It must be … taxing, to be the first Muggle-born among the wolves.”

“Blood, money and titles certainly seem to pave the way, still.”

Would it not have been for the dark, she would have seen his faint blush. Exactly these attributes had helped him come out nothing short of pristine after his trial. Or rather, his lack of a true trial.

Her smile was sad and resigned.

“I don´t know whether it is worth it or not. Maybe I should take one of the other department´s offers…”

She felt his thumb and index finger at her chin, turning her head towards him.

“I cannot believe that there is no fight left in Hermione Granger, war heroine and brightest witch in a century? What happened to changing the system from the inside?”

Merlin, he wanted to kiss the witch.

“Maybe the system is wearing me down,” she whispered, wondering whether he too felt the tension between them, now that they were so close.

Reining in the sudden impulse to run his thumb over her lips, he let go of her chin.

She is too young, he chastised himself. Since when did that stop you? A voice in his head mocked him. You are enjoying yourself. She is about the same age as Draco. Over twenty, in any case. Of age. Fair game.

He tore his gaze away from her neck, which looked very pale in the moonlight.

He needed a change of subject; Now.

“So, Miss Granger, if the celebration was not to your taste, what do you usually do on this happy day?”

She shook her head slightly as if to clear her thoughts, then she shrugged and turned back to watching the rolling waves.

“I have never done anything. In the years before, I was usually on holiday in the Muggle world with my parents. Some hotel or another. Not exactly the place to start any tradition of my own.”

“Are you telling me, that you have never observed Lughnasadh before?”

She shrugged again.

“It´s not during term time. Who would have celebrated with me?”

He looked up into the sky. He had about another hour or so before the sunrise.

Following a sudden desire to make her … feel better, or happy, perhaps even make himself happy, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her near.

“Let me show you something.”

Though a bit unsure, she nodded and felt the tug of side-along Apparition.

A moment later, they were standing at the edge of a corn field at the foot of a hill, topped by two huge ancient stone steles that reminded her of Stonehenge, the grain a pale gold in the night light. The location must have been farther inland than their previous location. There was no sea breeze, but she felt the warmer air that the shield of trees and hills provided even during the night. Breathing in, she noticed the sweet, heavy fragrance of ripe summer berries.

“Lumos.”

He smiled when she squealed delightedly upon finding the thorny bushes of wild blackberries only a few feet away. In the light of her wand she picked a handful and turned to him, her lips already bearing smears of the bluish juice.

Feeling comfortable in his presence now, she walked over, stood on her toes and popped two berries into his mouth. His taste buds exploded under the rich taste.

“Isn´t it divine?” she beamed at him.

You are divine, he wanted to tell her. You are so real. Not a shell of a girl, trying to figure out what I want to hear, always trying to please me. You would never lose yourself when… When what? He had not felt this way since … since Narcissa.

Firmly, Lucius pushed those thoughts away, took her hand and smiled. With a sideway movement of his head he indicated towards the field.

“Come with me.”

He led her through the shoulder-high grain into the middle of the field. His wand drawn from his cane and pointed at the stalks around them, he softly chanted an incantation, slowly turning on his own axis. The plants around them were pressed flat to the ground, forming a neat circle of about seven paces in diameter.

For a few seconds she marveled at the perfect crop circle, wondering whether the ‘I-want-to-believe-alien-searcher-community’ would be camped out by the edge of the field by tomorrow evening.

Lucius sat down on the ground, holding his hand out for her to join him. It was a bit odd to see him, of all people, sitting in the middle of a field. Not knowing what to expect, she settled down next to him, a tiny jolt of nervousness materializing in the pit of her stomach.

“Let your fingers touch the soil through the chaff.”

Hermione twined her fingers through the layers of stiff stalks and dug her fingertips into the warm earth.

Gently, very gently he touched her shoulders and pushed her back to recline on the bed of ripe ears and dry, golden stems that he had created. Her heart fluttered like an imprisoned bird in her chest, beating its wings frantically.

Hot breath ghosted over her earlobe.

“Close your eyes.”

She did. A shiver passed through her; he was nearly touching her. That low voice of his also did nothing to make her feel any calmer.

“The sun has gone down hours ago and the air is quite cool. But the earth is still warm, soaking up all the warmth from the day, storing it, giving it back to the plants and the small animals that live in their protective shelter, preparing the fruit of the earth for harvest before all lies dormant. Can you feel the buzz in the soil? The magic is moving through it as if in a frenzy. If you concentrate, you can feel how it vibrates.”

And she could feel it. Energy, anything but subtle, connecting every living thing, was coursing through the soil and into her. The peaks of her breasts pebbled and she felt a pleasurable tightening in her womb. Her breathing had become heavier and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from moaning, when she felt the magic now rushing into her wherever she touched the ground with her bare skin. Ankles, calves, arms, shoulders, oh gods, the nape of her neck…

He didn´t know when exactly he had moved. The magic was too strong, pushing into him through his hand on which he leaned next to her. He frowned. It should have been a pleasurable tingling, a magical presence, barely noticeable. One moment he sat looking down at her, spread out in the middle of his field, her hair in wild disarray around her head, face flushed and her whole body slightly arching up at times. The next moment he was bracing himself on his elbows on either side of her, lowering his head to the place where her shoulder and neck met. He was lost.

A warm mouth pressed against her collarbone. Hermione turned her head to the side to expose her throat to him as he trailed small kisses up…up…only to stop just one kiss away from the corner of her mouth. His hand rested on the zipper at the side of her dress.

“Will you allow me…?”

Her abdomen felt heavy, pulling her into the earth. Could she take the leap of faith? She could feel her pulse beating between her legs. The magic pooled in her lower body and washed away the doubt and fear that had tried to rear its ugly head. She lifted her hands to his cheeks and pulled him towards her lips, holding him there, just a tiny distance between them.

Tilting her head, she licked over his ever so slightly parted lips. He groaned and thrust unconsciously into the grains right beside her hip. He tried to descend on her mouth and kiss her, but she held him in his position, just out of reach. Looking into his eyes she put the tip of her index finger into her mouth, wetting it. Very slowly, she trailed the tip over his lower lip, back and forth, until he could no longer stop himself and used his body weight to close the space between them and crush her mouth with his.

He tasted like maraschino liquor and blackberries, like bitter orange and delicious promises of delight. His tongue traced her upper lip, running a small circle at its center, which seemed to be directly connected to all the nerve endings in her entire body. The magic was running in circuits through her, entering at her neck and shoulders, swirling inside her, winding her tightly, then rushing back into the ground beneath her. She opened her mouth wide to give him access. The physical contact seemed to ease the near-pain of the force with which the energy had invaded her.

No longer bothering with the zipper of her dress, he simply banished the garments to the side of the field with a nonverbal spell.

The effect was instantaneous. It was not like melting, but rather as if she would take root in the ground, connecting to the soil, taking from it and giving in return. Hands clutching the grain with unknown force, her legs had opened without her even realizing it.

“Help me,” she demanded, her voice raw with need.

Long fingers found that tiny bundle of nerves between her thighs, driving her crazy, circling around the hardened nub, then leaving to roam her folds, only to come back and tease her mercilessly.

Hermione found herself holding onto his hand for dear life, her fingernails digging into his pale skin, trying to increase the pressure, but the never ending supply of magic had now found its centre. Fighting the swirling inside her, she all but sobbed her ecstatic misery.

“Let go,” he whispered looking into her wide eyes. “This is beyond us. Let go. I want to see you coming apart for me.”

It was his words as much as his skillful actions that made her give in. No longer caring, she rubbed herself against him with quick motions, her sex throbbing powerfully against his hand as she came.

He gave her not much more than a minute to recover from her climax. Disposing of his robes with the same spell he had used earlier to divest Hermione of hers, he kneeled over her, his long hair brushing her cheek and shoulders.

“Hold yourself open for me.”

Not hesitating one moment, she obeyed his command and slid her hands between her legs, stretching her sensitized lips taught. The tender flesh felt swollen and tight as it never had before.

With the engorged head of his cock he slid up and down, dipping into her, spreading her arousal before slowly pushing inside. He felt silky and rough and even when she spread her thighs as wide as they could possibly go; he was cleaving her apart, stretching her flesh and she seemed to hold him in a tight grip, fighting the sweet intrusion in the most delicious way.

For a second, Lucius’ mind cleared and he felt panic rise in him. What had he done? She was so young, so tight, was it possible that this was her first … but no, there was no tearing, no sharp pain contorting her features. Relief washed over him as he sat up on his knees, her hips placed on top of his thighs. Very slowly he started thrusting into her, holding her still with one strong hand at her side and the other pressing down just above the dark patch of curls at the apex of her thighs. Hermione whimpered as he started angling his hips upward to make sure to slide against that textured spot inside of her.

Then the unthinkable happened. From her over-stimulated and nearly painful state, a new wave was building up inside her with every move of him, with every raw, primitive sensation against that place deep within her. With every thrust she slid over the ground, back and forth. The friction of magic on skin, the magic inside and a man inside a woman was driving her mad with need. She saw him looking at her with hooded eyes, his hands holding her hips tightly in place, never letting her speed up the pace.

The slow build up was not enough for her. Her gaze never drifted away from his face, and she slid one hand to the point where their bodies met while the other hand dug deeply into the soil.

The sight of her touching herself was his undoing. His movements became uncontrolled; soon he threw his head back in ecstasy, and shouted a name, hers, yet not hers, foreign to her ears, but at the same time so familiar as if she had been called by that name for centuries. The sun came up behind the hill, right between the two steles. White blond hair seemed to glow brightly. In awe, Hermione stared at the beautiful sight above her when she felt the tightness in her womb release. Bucking up, a strangled cry was torn from her.

“Lu…”

The magic exploded into her from the ground, locking them together, binding them both to the land for probably mere seconds, but it felt like minutes or even hours. At that moment they recognized each other fully, but before either one of them could voice that realization, the magic loosened its hold and started seeping back into the soil and plants beneath them.

Exhausted, Lucius fell at her side and instantly drew her to his chest, suddenly feeling cold in the fresh morning air. With a last tired effort, he summoned his cloak and draped it over both of their shivering bodies.

The gods had celebrated the light.

 

***

 

Hermione was blankly staring at the parchment in front of her. She simply had to perform the record search spell and she would know, whether this wizard somewhere in New Zealand, was, indeed, of British parentage and unmarried in Britain and would thus be eligible to apply for a Certificate of No Impediment. She sighed.

From nine o´clock sharp this morning, every fifteen to twenty minutes, a huge bouquet of orange and pink chrysanthemums had been delivered to each and every one of her coworkers. At quarter ‘til eleven it had been clear that Hermione would be the only one not to receive flowers.

“It´s to show the Muggle-born she´s not appreciated,” a hushed voice whispered somewhere behind and to the right, just loud enough for her to overhear.

“Maybe it´s a thank you for all the hard work we put in after implementing the new filing system,” another voice stated a bit louder.

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. The filing system had been dumped on her, and her alone, her colleagues claiming she would be more familiar with `That modern Muggle-style gibberish´. She felt ready to throw the towel. Friendliness had not worked, extreme diligence and staying after hours had only made it worse, the others accusing her of brown-nosing. All she wanted to do was to put her head on her desk and cry.

She had spent a wonderful, lazy Sunday at Malfoy Manor. After walking through the field and up the hill, she had been surprised to see that the mansion was located right on the other side of the ancient place of worship. Lucius had warded the bedroom door and forbade the house elves to set foot into the room. Food was to be apparated directly onto the small table at the bay window.

In the late afternoon he had delivered her back to her flat, where he left her with a soft, lingering kiss and the promise to Floo very soon.

Hermione knew that this had happened only half a day ago; surely she could not expect him to call her the very evening or the next morning before work? But her mind was running in crazy circles. What if he doesn´t call at all? What if he only wanted somebody to pass time? What if he doesn´t want to be with a Muggleborn, or somebody so much younger, or somebody with such unruly hair?

Hermione put her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. She desperately wished the day to be over.

Medea, the leader of the pack, sat down on top of Hermione´s desk, crumpling a few rolls of parchment in the process.

“So, Granger, no flowers for you, huh? I wonder why that is.”

Hermione looked up at her, not willing to fight today.

Medea smirked in self-satisfaction.

“Maybe you should not have made such a spectacle out of yourself. Or maybe you should not have thrown yourself at Lord Malfoy in such a disgusting and cheap manner. I am sure he took full advantage of what you offered.”

Tears welled up in Hermione´s eyes. She breathed slowly and deeply, forcing the building pressure behind her eyes to subside. She would not give that vile woman the triumph of crying in front of her.

Medea reached for one of the crumpled parchments.

“You know, as your supervisor, I really have to tell you to be more careful with important Ministry correspondence. We cannot cover up for you all the time. At some point, somebody will notice.”

The threat in her tone was anything but veiled. Smiling brightly, the blonde witch started tearing the official parchment.

A silver snake-headed cane pressed down firmly on her hand, making her freeze and her eyes grow huge.

“Indeed, Miss Purfedus, at some point, someone will find out.”

The snake pressed down harder, forcing her hands with the parchments down to the surface of the desk. Now there was undiluted fear in the carefully made up eyes of the team´s supervisor.

Lucius held her gaze for several agonizing seconds during which not a single sound could be heard in the usually chatter-filled office.

“I would like to thank you.”

The witch blinked.

“You … you would?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

He raised his voice just enough to be noticeable.

“I would like to thank all of you,” he said, smiling warmly at the Consular witches.

Everybody seemed confused but they relaxed a bit at his friendly words.

“Would it not have been for your outstanding fashion advice, I would have never met my…”

All colour drained from more than one face.

“…Hermione,” he finished with a smile.

Not looking in her direction, he thrust the bouquet of red roses that he had been flaunting at Medea.

“I trust you will be able to arrange a vase for these and place them on Miss Granger´s desk, Miss Purfedus? Very well.”

The blonde witch held on to the thorny flowers as if her life depended on it, casting horrified looks between her colleague and the esteemed wizard.

Lucius bend down to reach the back of Hermione´s chair and placed a small kiss on her hair.

“Are you ready for lunch, Butterfly?”

When she left the completely silent office on the arm of Lucius Malfoy, Hermione had the distinct feeling that her future had just got a bit brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my very first fanfic. It had been thought up/written on August 1st and 2nd during sleepless hours in an airport lounge, so, technically, this truly is a Lughnasadh story.
> 
> Oh, and: the name of the god Lugh is pronounced “Lu”. Indeed.


End file.
